


Make the Man

by dedougal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 09:14:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/pseuds/dedougal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has to accept his fate, his death but uses his links with Dean to find comfort in a whirlwind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make the Man

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Springfling 2012 for tsubasalove87. Prompts were Sam/Dean and clothes sharing.

He knew this feeling. He wasn’t Dean who would die rather than reveal his emotions. Not that they’re not already written plainly all over his face and in his body for Sam to see. But Sam knew this feeling. Despair.

There’s a heavy coldness to it. An icy lump that sits low in the chest. It’s emptiness, which is weird, since his head is too, too full. There’s all the different Sams in there jostling around, fighting for space. There’s Lucifer. There’s angry Sam and emotionless Sam (he could do with being him again sometimes) and young Sam who just wants to not let down his brother and there’s Lucifer filling in all the gaps.

Maybe the emptiness might be due to the fact he told Dean to go and leave him here. Leave him in the care of strangers who wouldn’t hum AC/DC under their breath to get him to sleep and wouldn’t care if he didn’t eat and who were oh so determined to pump him full of meds that had no effect. Nothing.

He missed Dean like a limb. He would miss a limb less. Maybe if he cut off a limb, Lucifer would go with it. Sam could manage without a leg. Or an arm. Or even his head.

 

It was a shock to realise he didn’t know what day it was. As long as it wasn’t Tuesday. A noise burbled out of him at that. It took Sam a few minutes to realise what it was. A laugh. He hasn’t used his laugh in so long that he can’t remember the taste of it anymore. His throat felt raw.

Lucifer laughs, readily. Sam is jealous of that, somehow, for all that he’s always the butt of the jokes.

Over the litany of “Monday’s child is full of grace – so not that, right, Sam? – Tuesday’s child is fair of face – could be that one, Sam, cause you’re sure pretty…” Sam wound his hands in his pant leg and stared at the blank wall opposite. The movement exposed his waistband, his boxers. He should smooth them up again. Instead his thumb brushed over the cloth.

These were, are Dean’s.

It turned out when both of you share a car and a laundry load and neither of you cares all that much about what type of value packs of underwear get picked up that all the underwear tends to stop being Sam’s and Dean’s and start being merely underwear. Sam knew these are Dean’s though. He picked them up in a gas station as a gag gift. The tiny black cars were almost completely faded. Sam ran his thumb over it again.

Lucifer stopped chanting and watched him closely. “Want to share, Sam? Want to tell me about the times you let out that other Sam and let your brother suck you? Fuck you?”

Sam jerked his hand away and rolled over, trying to shut out the ever constant voice.

 

It wasn’t a doze. Not a dream. But Sam saw himself, twelve and short and Dean, four years older and already beautiful. Dean had pulled on Sam’s soccer shorts – an accident? Deliberate joke? – Sam was never sure. At the time he just laughed at his big brother struggling into the too tight shorts, the muscles in his thighs that Sam envied bulging. Sam’s eyes were wide and he stuffed his hands into his mouth to stop himself laughing at his brother.

Dean seemed – or realised – what he had done. He looked over his shoulder at Sam and shook his ass like some kind of slutty cheerleader. He put his hands on his cocked out hip and pouted over his shoulder. “Does my ass look fat in these?”

His ass was round and encased by the tight, shiny material. Sam had reached out and ran his hand over the curve. Dean was warm and soft under the palm of his hand, smooth, heat searing. Then Dean had jumped away, silent and red, ran for the bathroom, and Sam couldn’t remember ever getting the shorts back.

The hallucination faded as Lucifer waved his hands in front of Sam’s face. “Wakey, wakey, rise and shine! Up! Up! Up! Give me twenty!” The voice, familiar and unwelcome, echoed around the room. Sam shuffled upright, trying to get away from the noise.

 

He was in the shower. For all the itchy scruff, Sam didn’t dare shave. His hand was shaking too hard now, exhaustion making him start to break down. But he wanted to be clean. As clean as he could be. Lucifer pressed up against his back, whispered in his ear, trailed the drops of water down his skin. And no matter how often Sam reminded himself he wasn’t there, wasn’t real, he could feel the icy chill of his fingers.

Towelling off, Sam remembered motel rooms that were so cold he could see his breath. Dean had avoided the towels that were more like cardboard and thrown an old t-shirt of his over Sam to dry him. Sam liked that. Even when he started to stretch, he used to like the baggy warmth of Dean’s t-shirts. When he’d pulled one on – he must have been sixteen then – and it had been too short, too tight, Dean’s voice had caught in his throat. He’d accused Sam of being grown up.

They’d kissed for the first time not long after that. Kissed and then ignored it.

 

Sam wasn’t a fan of the rec room. He preferred the privacy of his own rooms for when the hallucinations became too much. But they needed to change his sheets, mop his floor. He was gently-firmly asked to leave and ended up shuffling down corridors in slippers and bathrobe.

He’d never really had slippers. Flashes of Dean’s socks, Dean’s boots, Dean’s shoes used as anything to protect his feet. Shuffling in the dark, feet stuffed in too big boots, he’d bumped into Dean staggering through the door and smelled the alcohol. Dean was legal, now, but it didn’t mean he should drink like that and drive the car and leave Sam alone all night long.

Sam was angry. Fire boiled in his veins. The remembered emotion made him feel less tired, less sluggish, if for only a moment. He remembered yelling, screaming, determined to make Dean feel some remorse… Dean kissed him. Drunk and too hard and desperate. The anger had flooded out of Sam leaving only heat behind. He shouldn’t- He should wait until Dean was sober. Instead he’d kicked off the too-large boots and then the rest of his clothes and Dean had followed suit.

The rec room was noisy and Lucifer was prowling behind his shoulder and muttering about going to hell. Sam had been there. He’d had these memories torn from him and tainted by torture. Still. At the core of it, he was Sam and his brother was Dean and that was all that mattered.

 

He was back in bed, a new bed. His weight was too heavy to move, leaving aside the restraints. He’d helped that girl with her ghost and knew he had to let it go. When he went, Dean would salt and burn him. And he’d burn the clothes Sam had worn. And he’d burn all the pieces of each other that bound them together. Lucifer was crooning Sinatra now, in the style of Sid Vicious. There were even dance routines. Everyone said you should dance with the devil, but Sam was done with that too.

He dipped his thumb under the waistband of his pyjama pants once more. Dean, younger, more carefree, without the pain of hell or a broken angel or an insane brother or a dead father, came to mind.


End file.
